


Shelter

by RovingOtter



Category: Joker (2019), Taxi Driver (1976)
Genre: Hurt/Comfort, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-25
Updated: 2020-07-25
Packaged: 2021-03-05 20:41:45
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,519
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25511512
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/RovingOtter/pseuds/RovingOtter
Summary: After his program is cut, Arthur begins the painful process of weaning himself off his meds.
Relationships: Travis Bickle/Arthur Fleck
Comments: 3
Kudos: 50





	Shelter

**Author's Note:**

> A short one-shot, taking place between chapters 17 and 18 of PLU.

Winter in Gotham means deep, bitter cold—the sort of cold that crawls under your skin, into your bones, and makes a nest there. The heater hums and rattles, bravely pushing back against the chill, but it’s losing the battle.

Arthur stares out the window of the bedroom in Travis’s apartment, watching snowflakes spiral down through the darkness. He feels guilty for not staying with Penny tonight. He knows she gets lonely. But he sleeps better here. Usually.

Work was rough today. He’s been on a half-dose of his meds for almost a week now, trying to stretch out what he has left. His head hurts. When he turns it, there’s a sharp little zing inside, like an electric centipede skittering through his brain. He flinches.

In the darkness, beneath the covers, he feels Travis shift closer. Warm breath feathers against his neck; warm hands rub up and down his arms. “You got goosebumps all over you,” Travis murmurs. “I can feel 'em. You want another blanket?”

“I’m okay.”

Travis’s arms slide around him, pulling him closer. “Can’t sleep?”

Arthur shakes his head.

One of those warm, strong hands slides up beneath his shirt, along the bottom edge of his ribcage. The fingers curl to fit the curve of his waist. There’s a firm possessiveness in the touch. But it’s not amorous, exactly. Just…intimate. Arthur breathes quietly, very aware of the warmth and pressure of skin against his. His eyes are wide open in the darkness.

The hand slides out from under his shirt and moves upward, over his back, to rest atop his head. Fingertips rub his scalp in small circles. “How’s the weather in there?”

“Not great. But it could be worse."

"Wanna talk?"

"It’s just the usual stuff.” Worrying that he’ll lose his job once the withdrawal symptoms get bad enough. Worrying about what will happen to his mother if he loses his job. Reliving the humiliation of that night at Ha-Ha’s, the knowledge that he spilled out his most shameful secrets to an audience of strangers. The background noise of his brain, cranked up, now that the drugs aren't there to muffle it. He’s sick of his own pain; he worries that Travis will get sick of it too, sooner or later. So he searches for something positive to say. “The snow is pretty. Isn’t it?”

“Yeah.” Travis's arms tighten a little around Arthur's waist. “You wanna get up? Watch TV or somethin'?”

“You need to sleep. You’re working tomorrow. Aren’t you? You don’t have to stay awake just because I’m awake.”

“It’s not you. I have nights like this. Ever since the war.”

Arthur hesitates. “Are you thinking about that?”

Travis’s breath stirs his hair. “Somethin’ like that.”

His hand rests on Arthur’s hip. Arthur covers it with his own hand. He thinks about the scar on Travis’s back, the mountain range on his skin. “What do you think about?" he whispers. "When you can't sleep?"

Silence. “Sometimes...I think about people hurting me. Mostly, though, I think about hurting other people. I remember things I did.”

Arthur swallows, throat tight. Travis rarely talks about his own pain. His own memories. "Can I help?"

“Holding you helps. Calms me down. Just…feelin’ your heartbeat. Feelin’ you move.” His thumb rubs Arthur’s shoulder through his t-shirt. “You drift in and out of sleep. I listen to your breathing slow down and get faster. Sometimes I feel you start to dream.” His hand slides down to cup Arthur’s ribcage again.

Arthur closes his eyes. A shiver runs through him. But he’s not cold anymore.

He feels a stirring. An awareness, beneath his belly. He’s not hard—he’s too distracted by the pain in his head, the noise of his thoughts, to really get into that mind-space. But there’s a subtle tightening in his balls. They grow fuller, tenderer. He feels that shift within his body, the response to touch, the heat of Travis’s skin against his, in the darkness—the sense of Travis’s attention focused on him. There is a wall separating their thoughts. But at times, it feels as though that wall starts to fade. His eyelashes flick up and down rapidly, and he wonders if Travis can hear him blinking in the darkness. “What do you want to do?” Arthur asks softly.

“Anything. We can watch something. Or we can take a shower, make some coffee. We can go for a walk. Or I can just hold you.”

Arthur’s gaze fixes, again, on the window. The soft glow of the moon outside. Another electric zing shoots through the soft meat of his brain. He moves, and his bones crack and pop inside him. His empty stomach is a clenched fist.

He is too aware of his own body and thoughts right now. Too aware of his organs, his skin. Too aware of being Arthur Fleck. Being touched, right now, feels like a spotlight. He needs to fill his mind with something else, something not-him. “A walk sounds nice.”

Lips brush against his temple. “Sure.”

* * *

They get dressed and walk down to the end of the street, hand in hand. The city is still. Mostly. A car glides past. A rat scampers across the snowy sidewalk and disappears into an alley.

"I wonder what they do when it gets cold," Arthur says. "The rats, I mean."

"Maybe they huddle together."

Arthur stops, clutching Travis's hand in his. His breath plumes in the cold. Already, his fingers are starting to grow numb, despite his gloves. He glances over, taking in the powdered-sugar dusting of snow on Travis's hair and shoulders. Arthur suddenly aches to kiss him, but he doesn't dare. Not outside. Just holding hands feels risky. So they just stand, watching the snow fall.

By tomorrow morning, Arthur knows, the snow will be gray and mushy, churned into a sludge by countless feet and tires. But for a few brief hours, in the stillness of the early morning, Gotham will be covered by a smooth, crisp blanket. Like a city in a snow globe.

* * *

By the time they return to the apartment, there's a faint dawn-glow in the sky and their cheeks are flushed from the cold.

Arthur slides off his shoes. They curl up on the couch, wrapped in blankets, and turn on the TV. Travis eats a cold slice of pizza and chases it down with a Coke. Arthur sips a glass of iced tea. He watches the sugary mixture swirl inside, a hazy orange cloud, settling in the bottom of the glass like sediment. Little by little, his clenched stomach relaxes enough to accept the calories, and his headache eases. Maybe it was low blood sugar.

_Star Wars_ is playing on one of the channels. "I've heard people talk about this movie, but I've never seen it," Arthur remarks. "Have you?"

"Saw it alone in the theater, couple years back. It was all right. Sort of a kids' movie. We missed the first few scenes, looks like."

"Can you explain it to me?"

"Sure, well..." He clears his throat. "There are these soldiers called Jedi. That guy there, Obi-Wan, he's one of 'em. And they're fighting these other guys..." 

He talks for a while, as the movie plays. Arthur lets Travis's voice wash over him. He finds himself daydreaming about how nice Travis would look in a Jedi robe, wielding a lightsaber. The screen grows fuzzy and fades softly into dreams.

They are on another planet. A world with two suns. Endless desert. A bleak and desolate place. There is something haunting and lonely about it, but something beautiful, as well.

* * *

Travis watches from the corner of his eye as Arthur’s eyelids start to droop, and the muscles in his face relax.

Within minutes, he’s snoring softly, head resting against Travis’s shoulder. He’s exhausted, after all. He’s been dragging himself to work and taking care of his mother while battling withdrawal symptoms. His body and soul are sore and battered, ragged-edged. He’s barely holding on. This is all Travis can give him: a brief reprieve, a moment of rest.

Arthur’s wounds run deep. So deep. Even with all the meds to help steady him, it was hard. And now…

All that pain. And still, Arthur tries not to complain. Still, he tries not to worry Travis. He pushes it down.

Carefully, he tucks a lock of wavy brown hair behind Arthur’s ear. He can see a strand or two of silver in there. Pretty.

Travis half-watches the movie as he listens to Arthur’s breathing. He imagines himself in a spaceship, hurtling through the star-scattered darkness, with a plastic thermos of cold coffee and bagged sandwiches in a cooler, Arthur by his side. They are alone, nothing but a tube of metal to protect them from instantly freezing to death in the cold void of space. They are small and fragile beings, holding onto each other in a universe too big and too impartial to care about how their story ends. Surviving day by day. Heartbeat by heartbeat. There is a feeling of uncertainty, of impermanence.

But it’s not a bad feeling.


End file.
